


Speeding in a School Zone

by 1001cranes, languisity



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, High School, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-28
Updated: 2008-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-25 23:59:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4981828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001cranes/pseuds/1001cranes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/languisity/pseuds/languisity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school AU where Frank and Gerard are awkward, Pete is romantically confused, Patrick owns, and Bob is a ninja.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Pete, the first time we met you proposed to me. I don’t think your heterosexuality was ever all that secure.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Speeding in a School Zone

**Author's Note:**

> I found this buried in a folder of old fics. there might be some... interesting posts happening in the next few days.

Little known fact – the best hiding spot in the whole school was the music room. 

The teachers knew all the usual spots. They checked all the hallways, they checked the backstage of the auditorium, they checked the stairwell to the basement on the west side of the building. The even checked behind garbage dumpster. Although, ew, _behind the garbage dumpster_. Pete was a delinquent, but he wasn’t stupid. And generally not-smelly. Well. _Generally_. 

The music room, however, was only used a few periods a day. In the morning for chorus practice, after school for band practice, and fifth and sixth period for music theory. Perfect for skipping third period English, as it were. 

Which was exactly what Pete was doing. Skipping English, in hopes of listening to his iPod and texting Joe until he got him in trouble. But instead of the odd quiet that should have settled in a room too full of things that were supposed to make sound, were _made_ for it, he heard music. Which, okay, music room, yes, but there was a boy sitting at the front of the room bent over a guitar. Fingers plucking out a melody as he hummed softly. It was tentative, but determined, and something about it struck Pete. Something about the music wormed its way into his soul and clamped down, held tight. 

Without another moment’s thought, Pete threw himself into the chair next to the boy, "You are beautiful and I love you.” 

Ginger-Haired Musical Genius (as Pete had decided to christen him for now and possibly _forever_ ) blinked. "I'm fourteen and we just met." 

"Yes,” Pete said seriously. “But our souls have known each other since times immorandum.” 

"…Immemorial?" 

Pete frowned. "A really fucking long time, okay? You're made of stardust and comet tears and I wish to keep you forever in my pocket." 

Ginger-Haired Musical Genius set his guitar down carefully, and sent a darting glance towards the door. 

Fortunately, Pete could pick out a runner at twenty paces. “You can’t leave yet,” he insisted, grabbing blindly for the other boy’s wrist. “How can I write sonnets to your genius unless you give me your name?” 

“I don’t think you particularly need my name to write me sonnets.” 

Pete wagged a finger. “Clever. Clever little hobbit. But you will not escape me, my precious.” 

GHMG’s eyes narrowed. “Are you making fun of me for being short? ‘Cause from where I’m sitting, there are no tiny stones to be thrown.” 

Pete was keeping him _forever_. “You are my squishy,” he said grandly. “And you shall be mine.” 

The other boy was making that its-time-to-get-away-from-the-creepy-old-guy face again. His frown deepened. “Why am I squishy? Are you calling me fat now? What the _hell_?” Pete could feel arm muscles tensing under his hand. 

“I didn’t hear any of that,” Pete grinned. “My ears have been plugged with _love_.” He watched, delighted, as a flush spread over GHMG’s face. 

“My name is Patrick Stump,” Patrick said grudgingly. _Patrick Stump_. Pete wanted to giggle. “And I’m not going on a date with you, dude. I’m not gay.” At this point he seemed mostly resigned to Pete clinging onto him though. 

“I’m not gay either,” Pete declared. “Just cuddly. But we have to get married, Patrick Stump. What irreparable damage will you do to our children when I have to tell them the reason Mommy and Daddy have different names is because Mommy doesn’t love them?” 

“Mommy doesn’t…? Oh Jesus.” Patrick ducked as far under the brim of his hat as he could. “I am _really_ not old enough for you to be talking like this.” 

“I’ll wait until you’re older,” Pete continued earnestly. “How will I be able to look my mother-in-law in the face knowing I took her baby in his tender years?” 

Patrick actually started choking. Pete thumped him enthusiastically on the back. Patrick recovered enough to glare. “Tender years? Am I a prime rib?” 

Pete ignored his squalling in favor of a full body hug. “We’re going to be _best friends_.” 

| | 

Okay, so. Frank was really hot. 

This was slightly redundant, Gerard knew. Frank smacked him over the head with his hotness when they first met, and it’s kind of been a recurring loop in Gerard’s head ever since. Gerard wanted to accuse Frank of psychically beaming his hotness into Gerard’s head, but, _hello_ , even Gerard wasn’t that socially inept. 

Except maybe he was, because near the end of the third week of school Frank poked Gerard in the arm – with some fairly sharp lab tool of some kind, actually – and said, "Dude, if I'm bothering you, I can go be partners with, like, Bob. I'm pretty sure he'd smack me down if I bothered him. No mixed messages." Frank smiled and shrugged, but it looked a little sad. In fact, it might be the saddest thing Gerard has ever seen. 

He wanted to tell Frank that he was wrong, that Gerard wasn't ignoring him. It’s mostly that he was too interested -- not in the creepy stalker way, he doesn't want to watch Frank breathe while he's sleeping or anything – but Gerard was trying to be _stealthy_. Stealthy and cool and every other thing he's been told he'll never be, and he thought he was succeeding. Apparently not. He opens his mouth to tell to Frank that he’s kind of a social idiot, and _explain_ , and shit, but what comes out instead is, "A goldfish has a memory span of three seconds." It's the longest sentence Gerard's said to Frank since they were paired up. It's also the most ridiculously stupid one. 

Frank blinked. 

“Much like me,” Gerard blurted. “I mean. You’re not bothering me, I just get kind of caught up in my head, I guess? I was trying not to be a total spazz.” 

Frank grinned. 

Gerard though this was probably when he moved from crush territory to being head over fucking heels. 

| | 

Patrick wasn't used to being the center of anyone's attention or the kind of person that other people liked to show off, and Pete Wentz had managed to change that in a day. In _three_ days he'd managed to make Patrick the guy that everyone felt the need to wave and nod at on their way to class. And in a week, Pete had Patrick's mother believing that Pete was someone she actually _wanted_ hanging around Patrick. In their home. In Patrick's room. 

"I don't even know where he came from." Patrick leaned heavily against Joe. Joe was a good friend. Joe was _solid_. Joe could also be a bitch with pointy elbows when you got in the way of his gaming. "Ow, ow, you fucker." Patrick shifted to rub at his side. 

Joe shrugged. "Where does anyone come from?" 

Andy snorted. Andy came package-deal with Pete, but Patrick liked him well enough so far. He had already taken Patrick to this really good vegan diner on Sixth. "Deep." 

"Like the fuckin'… moors of Scotland, bitch,” Joe muttered. 

For a while there was only silence, the plastic click of video game controllers being abused. Then – "He's always _on_ me,” Patrick said desperately. “It's fucking bizarre." 

Andy quirked an eyebrow at the screen, doing something complicated with his controller that ended in Joe cursing the son of his cousin's first born goat before saying, "What's more bizarre is the way you're talking about him like he's not in the room." 

That, apparently, was Pete's cue. He sniffled dramatically, and dropped the magazine he'd been thumbing through to hang off the bed, reaching out for Patrick. "Ignore me not, Peppermint Patty." 

"Go away," Patrick said, looking Pete straight in the eye, and wondered if he just wasn't saying it right because all Pete did was grin. 

"Come on, Rumple Stumpskin. Come sit on the bed with me. We'll hold hands and think pure thoughts." 

“I’m pretty sure you’ve never had a pure thought in your life.” 

"Oh, but your virgin spirit cleanses my _soul_." 

"His soul, Patrick," Joe echoed, trying not to giggle. 

Sometimes Patrick hated Joe. "I hate you so much, Joe." 

Joe hadn't heard or didn’t care or both, because he didn't answer. 

Pete rolled around until he was hanging upside down and snagged the hem of Patrick's shirt. Patrick swatted him away. "But you love me." 

"I loathe you." Patrick did not pout. He frowned. Intensely. 

Pete went limp, letting his arms drop to the floor. "You don't," he said, and smiled. It was a small smile, questioning. 

"You can't hate Pete," Joe mumbled, distracted. “S’like. Hating puppies. Inbred puppies, but that just kind of makes you cuddle them more.” 

"Nobody hates Pete," Andy added. 

"I do," Patrick muttered darkly, but when Pete climb off the bed to snuggle up to him, twisted and tangled together, Patrick didn't say no. 

| | 

It wasn't that Mikey was a total space cadet. Really, he wasn’t. It just took him a little while longer to realize things sometimes. Like, for example, that they were halfway through lunch before it even clicked that his brother had brought someone over to eat with them. 

"Who are you?" Mikey asked, surprised. 

New guy didn't answer at first, too busy trying to steal Gerard's food, and Mikey raised his voice, trying again. "You. With the... You. Who are you?" 

"Me? Frank," he said, without looking up. Then – "Gerard's friend." 

"Gerard has a new friend," Ray said stiffly, but he sounded oddly relieved. 

Gerard's eyes narrowed, but he was blushing a little. Mikey watched him. Watched the way Gerard started to relax against Frank, then tense, then relax again. He watched the way Gerard laughed a little too loud and then ducked his head so Frank couldn’t see. 

Mikey sent Ray a look, and raised an eyebrow. 

Both of Ray's rose in return. "Oh. Gerard has a new _friend_." 

Oh boy. Mikey was _really_ going to have to start paying attention. 

| | 

Frank usually ended up doing most of the class work. Which was potentially a mistake, Gerard knew. Frank was a walking _disaster_. If something was breakable, he would try and juggle it. He burnt things. He exploded them. He was also really ridiculously _enthusiastic_ about putting everyone in mortal peril. Like right now, for example. Right now he was smiling at a test tube of acid, a smile made of rainbows and sunshine and _awesome_ , and Gerard forgot to be afraid. He smiled back dreamily, pen poised over a sheet of notebook paper. While Frank did all the messy bits, Gerard took the notes. Well, they were kind of notes. Gerard tended to get distracted and draw little pictures of Frank in the margins, then had to hide the papers out of shame. Which was why he maybe missed exactly what happened next. 

There are maybe six different versions of the story, but they all end the same. Frank was dancing or just breathing or just being Frank (it was hard to tell what the difference was sometimes) and Bob was unlucky enough to exist in the same universe. It happened fast. Frank's hand twitched, gravity existed, the acid spilled all over the both of them, and the next thing anyone knew Bob was cursing and shoving them both into the emergency shower. 

At first, Gerard was fairly certain that Bob was pulling Frank into the shower to kill him and wash the evidence down the drain. When Mr. Ripley started ushering everyone out of the room, he even started to protest. This is _Jersey_. These things happen! 

Mr. Ripley rolled his eyes over Gerard’s head before sending Victoria down to janitorial to get someone to clean up the acid, and Nate down to the locker room to pick up Bob and Frank’s gym clothes. 

While waiting in the hall, Gerard tried really, _really_ hard not to think about Frank naked in the shower. Mostly because he was naked in the shower with Bob. Because, okay, maybe this was weird and creepy, but why couldn’t Frank have spilled acid on _Gerard_? Not that Gerard would’ve remembered the emergency shower – he would have just flailed and screeched a lot – but whatever. Frank was in the shower with _Bob_. Bob, who was, like, big and blonde and kind of muscle-y, and had really piercing blue eyes, and had never _ever_ in his life looked as much like a dork as Gerard managed to do on a daily basis. 

So, yeah. Even though the thought of Frank in the shower – _naked_ – was doing things to the pit of Gerard’s stomach, so was the thought of Bob being in there with him. 

| | 

[After class...] 

Frank was caught between a Bob and a wall of lockers and he was honestly more afraid than he’d ever been of anyone in his entire _life_ , including the time he tried to disrobe Sister Anne-Marie during Sunday School Class because he wanted to see what kind of underwear nuns wore. (He was almost successful too, for the record. No one told him nuns wore _layers_.) 

"If you ever do anything like that again..." Bob started. 

There was a long enough pause for Frank to start squirming and before he knew it, he was babbling and filling in the blanks himself. "You'll eat my liver? String me up on the flagpole? Kill me and dump my body in the quarry? Murder me and stuff me in _five different_ lockers?" Frank had all these really gory pictures in his head, bits of him dismembered, or burnt with acid, his eyes popping out. He should possibly stop watching horror movies. 

Bob blinked. “Uh. No?” 

“Oh.” Frank was strangely disappointed. “I… cool?” 

Bob shook his head. “Just don’t – Watch yourself next time, okay? Acid, Frank. _Acid_.” 

“Right.” Frank bobbed his head up and down. “No, right, I get it. No more acid samba.” 

Bob was still shaking his head when he walked down the hall. 

| | 

When Bob came out of the acid-spilling accident without even the smallest of chemical burns, Gerard became firmly convinced that Bob is indestructible. Like, solid. Ben Grimm without the outward mutation, or something. Maybe like _Wolverine_ , which, dude, how cool would that be? Frank came _thisclose_ to be shredded with adamantium claws! Not that Gerard wanted Frank to be shredded with adamantium claws. That was basically the opposite of what he wanted. But it would still be pretty cool. 

Gerard spent a week staring at the back of Bob’s head. Bob appeared completely unaware, but Gerard wasn’t quite sure. He ignored the weird looks Frank keeps giving him. _Frank_ was the one naked in the shower with Bob, okay? If Frank was going to be a jealous boyfriend, he should just tell Gerard to step off. Until then, Gerard was allowed to stare. 

One day, in the middle of Mr. Ripley’s lecture about balancing equations, Gerard threw a pencil at the back of Bob’s head. 

Frank choked. 

Bob turned around and _looked_ at Gerard. 

This time Gerard was the one who choked. He didn’t look at Bob anymore. 

He still wondered though. Because, seriously. _Solid_. 

| | 

To the wonder and amazement of the rest of the school, somehow Frank and Bob end up friends. (Gerard personally thought this was because they were naked in the shower together. Who _wouldn’t_ want to be Frank’s friend after that?) Bob started hanging out with Frank after school, and eating with them for lunch. They even had to move to a bigger table at lunch. 

(“Gee has another friend?” Mikey asked innocently. 

Ray shrugged. “An alarming trend.”) 

| | 

Patrick went to open his locker, but there was a Pete standing in front of it. 

"Move." He sighed, reaching out as if the push Pete out of the way, but ultimately stopped short. Patrick didn't want to touch him if he didn't have to. It only seemed to encourage Pete. 

"But I'm here to help you on this most joyous of days, dear Patrick." 

"You're going to help me by standing in front of my locker?" 

Pete rolled his eyes and sighed noisily. "No. I'm helping you by walking you to class to protect your virtue, and carrying your books to protect your… curvacious figure." 

Patrick was seriously considering trying to beat some sense into Pete. That involved touching Pete though, and that was still a decidedly gray area. 

"What?" Pete squawked, which meant Patrick had been giving him a Look and didn't even realize it. That had been happening way too much lately. "You're very... soft. It's nice. Like you were made for cuddles," Pete said, grinning, and his left hand reached out to hang in the vicinity of Patrick's right hip. Patrick took a long step back and clutched his books to his chest. 

Patrick thought someone behind him actually made the “aw” sound. If he ever found out who it was, someone was getting _smacked_. Fuck. It was probably Joe. 

"I am... I don't... what?" There was a faint ringing in Patrick's ears. That really couldn't have meant anything good. "Fuck off, Pete." 

"Only if you'll fuck off with me, Stumpalina." 

Patrick was struck with sudden inspiration. “Okay," he said, amiably enough, and could've cheered, because – for once – Pete was the one caught off guard. 

"Okay?" Pete echoed, blinking rapidly, but recovered quickly, smiling. "I mean, of course you'll come with me. You will be my Patrick and I will be your Pete, and we will be best friends forever and ever. Et cetera." Then he narrowed his eyes. “Are you lying to me, Patrick Martin Stump?” 

Patrick gave Pete his very best wide-eyed and innocent look. “Who is the creepy stalker in this relationship?” 

“Yeah, well, my creepy stalker senses are tingling,” Pete said wryly, but he relaxed again, before picking up the smallest of Patrick’s books and attempting to balance it on his head. “Can you believe they used to train princesses by doing shit like this to them?” 

Patrick shoved the rest of his books into his bag and hefted it onto his back, wincing when the book slid from Pete’s head to the floor. 

“Patrick!” Pete hooted, trying to pick the book up between his feet. “Patrick, I don’t think I would be a good princess!” 

“No shit,” Patrick shot back, but couldn’t help grinning in return. 

| | 

Frank met Gerard at lunch like usual, sliding into the seat next to Gerard the way he always did, scooting in close enough for their knees to touch. This time, though, Gerard goes stiff. Frank was always touching him – always touching _everyone_ , really, which was why Gerard was so depressed about it. It didn’t _mean_ anything. Frank was very tactile. Also possibly the offspring of a monkey and limpet – it was one of the more feasible explanations, anyway. 

Gerard sent what he hoped was a withering glare in Frank's direction but it came off as more petulant, and Frank smiled through it, pressing closer to Gerard's side. Gerard made a tiny frustrated sound and tried to scoot away, but ended up smushed against Ray instead. 

“Here.” Frank threw one arm around Gerard’s shoulder and poked a soda can into his side with the other, smirking when Gerard jumped. “I brought you a drink.” 

Gerard opened his mouth to say thanks – his mother raised him right, seriously. Or at least she _tried_ – when Frank scrambled across the table and launched himself into Bob’s lap. 

Gerard looked from the can in front of him to where Frank was practically _nestled_ in Bob’s lap, and back again, and he could scream. What he did was slam the stupid can of Mr. Pibb on the table, lips pulled taunt, eyes narrowed. 

"Would it kill you," he started, and it was like he lost all control over his voice. It was too high and too loud. "Would it fucking kill you to be considerate of other people's feelings? Huh, Frank?" 

One corner of Frank's mouth was quirked up in that way that said he didn't understand what the joke was, but he was willing to bet it was at least a little funny. "Dude, it's just a soda." 

"Did you even stop to think that, hey, I might not actually like Mr. Pibb?" Everyone was staring now and Gerard couldn't have stopped himseld if he tried. "I could want, like a... a fucking Fanta. Ever think of that, Frankie?" 

"No,” Frank said slowly. “No, I didn’t think of that. I _thought_ I was bringing a can of soda over to my _friend_.” 

Gerard was perfectly aware he was acting like a douche. It’s just, like – why couldn’t Frank be considerate of other people’s feelings and bring the right kind of soda and not get into emergency showers with people? Was that so much to ask? So, yeah, acting like a douche, but Gerard kind of refused to stop once he was started, so. 

“Maybe I wanted a Fanta, Frank. Maybe I _like_ Fanta and it wouldn’t have killed you to get me some, okay, ‘cause… ‘cause that’s what a _real_ friend would do.” 

“Fuck you,” Frank gritted out through clenched teeth, his hands fisted at his sides. “I brought over Mr. Pibb as a gesture, douchebag.” 

“It’s not much of a gesture if it only lends to your selfish desires,” Gerard said snottily. 

At this point Frank was practically _vibrating_ with the need to punch Gerard in the fucking face. He decided to react in a more proactive manner – Ray had been coughing discreetly every few seconds and Mikey’s eyes ere about to swallow his face – by clambering off of Bob’s lap and stomping away. “Fuck you and _your_ selfish desires,” he spat. What a fucking _douche_. 

For a long moment no one said anything. Then Bob reached across the table, grabbed the can of Mr. Pibb, and popped the cap. 

Mikey stared at him. “Did you just…” 

Bob shrugged. “I think we’ve already established Gerard won’t be drinking it.” 

| | 

Frank biked home from school that day, extra quick up the hills and then coasting down with his eyes closed. He threw his bike into the garage, stomped past where his mom and dad were talking in the kitchen, and threw himself on his bed before scowling at the ceiling.  
Fucking... _Gerard_. Fucking Gerard, with his stupid fights and his stupid... _face_. Frank didn't even know what he'd done wrong, and while he was apparently smart enough to know it wasn't about a fucking _Fanta_ , he still couldn't seem to figure out anything beyond that. It was just... Gerard. He didn't make any sense. Trying to understand him was like reading a map written in black crayon on black construction paper. In the dark. Blindfolded, and with his hands tied behind his back. Only more frustrating. 

Frank snorted and pulled out his phone, clicking through the messages – not because he was looking for one from Gerard, because he wasn’t – but Ray might want to hang out again, and it’d been awhile since he’d talked to Nick. 

Nothing. There was one from Matt, though, about a show he was going to tonight. 

Frank tilted his head sideways, considering. 

| |

 

"Mikey, hey." 

"Uhm," Mikey stuttered a little. "Gee is kind of..." 

"I don't care," Frank said, ignoring the little knot in the pit of his stomach. "I was going to see Shatterbright at the Sunshine Pill, and I was wondering if you wanted to come along."  
“Oh.” Mikey stared at Frank a minute before shrugging. “Sure. Gimme five minutes?” 

“Yeah. I’ve got my mom’s car, so. I’ll just be in the driveway.” 

No sense sticking around where Gerard could see, after all. 

| | 

Frank practically bounced into the club, bundled nerves and pent up energy. This week had turned into a special hell-- acid aside, because even if he still had a few red patches on his arms from chemical burn, that had been _awesome_ \-- and he was determined to work it out in the pit. He threw a glance over his shoulder to make sure that Mikey was still behind him, and hadn’t accidentally gotten himself into a fight by tripping into someone – or even just tripping over himself, since that was Mikey’s usual M.O – or something equally ridiculous. 

Mikey caught up to Frank and elbowed him in the side. 

Frank elbowed him back. “I’m heading into the pit. You wanna…?” 

Mikey shook his head and made a little shooing motion. "Wall’s cool." 

Frank didn’t wait another second, just pushed his way through the crowd and dove into the rough crush of bodies, pushing and pulling and moving together. 

| | 

A half hour later, after he'd screamed his voice raw, Frank half-pushed, half-stumbled his way out of the chaos, sweaty and bruised and all the better for it. He drifted a little, vague thoughts of looking for Mikey somewhere in the back of his mind, but he found Pete instead. 

Pete and Frank ran into each other at the clubs a lot, and there weren't a lot of high school guys with tattoos, so they were sort-of friends, or at least something more than acquaintances. Pete Wentz was one crazy fucker, but Frank could appreciate that. Even if he maybe was checking out Mikey. 

“Hey,” Pete said, yelling right into Frank’s ear, jammed up too close next him. “How’ve you been, dude? I haven’t seen you around lately.” 

Frank shrugged. “Alright. Just…” He made a wiggling sort of hand motion he’d probably picked up from Gerard. Fuck. 

Pete nodded. “Yeah.” Then he nudged Frank with his elbow, lightly, grin widening. “So who is she?” 

“She?” 

Pete brayed his donkey laugh, and Frank couldn’t help grinning even though he still didn’t have any idea who Pete was talking about. “The girl you came in with? Kind of tall, sleek. Looked a little like a lesbian?” 

It took about two seconds for Frank to realize Pete was talking about _Mikey_ , and after that he honestly couldn’t hold back the snickers. 

“What?” Pete asked, frowning. “She’s totally a lesbian, isn’t she?” 

“No!” Frank managed to push past the giggles. It was _hard_. “No, no, no. Mikey’s not a lesbian. Not at _all_.” The hopeful look on Pete’s face is almost too much to take, oh God. It was probably totally asshole- _mean_ , what Frank was about to do, but it was just too funny to pass up. “In fact, you know what? Lemme go introduce you.” Frank grabbed Pete’s wrist and started to drag him through the clumps of people, shoving his elbows into ribs and spines. Being tiny had its advantages, and Pete was barely taller than Frank. 

They found Mikey by the bar, tucked in on himself but managing to look more nonchalant than dazed and confused. How Mikey managed to exude ‘cool’ when he apparently once nearly killed himself by taking a shower with a space heater, Frank will never know. 

"Mikey," Frank shouted over the noise, smiling so hard he though it was going to split his face, "This is Pete. Pete, meet Mikey.” 

Pete grinned, wide smile flashing red and yellow from the overhead lights. Mikey blinked. 

"So, hey!" Frank stepped back and Pete stepped forward. Mikey crowded in on himself, gaze darting from Pete to Frank meaningfully. "I'm gonna leave you two lovebirds here _alone_ ," Frank drawled the last word and waggled his eyebrows. "Make with the getting to know each other." 

Mikey’s eyes were broadcasting something along the lines of ‘wait, what? Don’t leave me!’ but because he was too stubborn to actually _say_ something, Frank dashed off, cackling to himself. 

| | 

Pete crowded in too close to Mikey, grinning big and bright, and the first thing he said was, "So... come here often?" 

Mikey rolled his eyes. 

Pete nodded in sympathy. “I know, lame. I’m really just trying to cut back on being a creepy stalker, because if you _did_ come here often, I totally would have noticed before now.” 

“That’s… honest.” 

Pete beamed, and inched his way closer to Mikey. “I’m definitely that.” 

Mikey didn’t even feel like reclaiming his personal space. Well. Much. 

| |

Gerard poked sullenly at the toaster. What was it about toasters, anyway? The toast either came out barely warm, or completely crispy, and it required, like, constant vigilance to get some toast worth eating, and who the hell wants to bother with that when they just woke up in the morning? 

While Gerard glared at the toaster, Mikey came up behind Gerard and nudged him with his elbow. Gerard almost toppled over. Mikey should know better than to do that shit before Gerard had two cups of coffee in him. 

“Where were _you_ last night?” Gerard asked snottily. 

Mikey hesitated before shrugging. “Out.” 

Gerard was trying to pretend that his brother hadn’t snuck in at three in the morning last night, and then jerked off. Twice. It wasn’t helping his mood. 

“Well, if you’re gonna do it again, make sure Mom doesn’t catch you,” he added gruffly. Mikey gave him a shuffling, awkward one-armed hug. 

“I know you really like Mr. Pibb,” he said simply, and then walked away. 

Gerard gaped after him. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?” he yelled, stamping his feet. Seriously, he needed more like _three_ cups of coffee to deal with Mikey when he got like this. 

Mikey just shrugged. “I think you know.” 

“Well I _don’t_ ,” Gerard said stubbornly, and punched the toast back down. 

Mikey rolled his eyes. 

| | 

It was like the world was conspiring against Gerard. Or at least his friends were. Frank and Gerard had studiously ignored each other all through Science class, both getting actual work done for the first time all year. Gerard didn’t even know he was capable of taking such meticulous notes on molecular bonds. (He honestly could have gone through life without knowing, truth be told). And ignoring Frank had had been going perfectly, Gerard thought, until lunch. For _some reason_ , everyone was sitting at one of the smaller tables. Ray, Mikey, and Bob were squished together on one side, and Frank-- of _course_ Frank was there-- was sitting across from them. Ray was trying to look innocent, Mikey looked blank as usual, and Bob just look tired. 

"Just sit down already," Bob said after a minute of Gerard hovering nearby. Gerard frowned, but sat down next to Frank, even if he did sit as far away as possible. 

“Now _talk_ ,” Ray said, looking at Frank and Gerard, expression expectant. Bob nodded, one hand in Ray’s bag of Cheetos, the other point sternly at the space between the two. 

Frank crossed his arms and scowled. Petulantly. “Giant bastards.” 

Gerard couldn’t help it. He giggled. Frank snuck a little sideways glance at him, one corner of his mouth curled up before they both remembered they were fighting, frowned, and looked away. 

“Uhm,” Gerard said. Frank snuck another look at him from under his bangs. “Frank, uhm.” He coughed. "I was being an ass. And I'm sorry because I didn't mean. I mean it wasn't. I didn’t…" Gerard flailed. Shit. Shit, motherfucker – 

Frank put one hand over Gerard’s mouth. “Dude. I get it, okay? You’re totally forgiven.” 

Gerard’s eyes went wide. Frank’s hand. On his mouth. Frank’s. _hand_. “Mmph?” 

“And, uhm.” Frank pulled his hand off of Gerard’s mouth and grinned sheepishly. “I’ll make sure and bring you Fanta from now on, okay?” 

“I. I like root beer, too. For the record.” 

“Duly noted,” Frank said, and smiled. Gerard grinned back. 

“Hug it out, bitches,” Bob said wryly, and ate the last of Ray’s Cheetos. Mikey was already texting on his Sidekick. 

Gerard scooted a little closer to Frank, and pretended he didn’t see Ray beaming at them happily. 

| | 

"Patrick!" Pete yelled, before throwing himself onto Patrick's bed, waving his arms wildly. "Patrick Patrick Patrick!"

"Why hello, Pete," Patrick said dryly. "Sure, come on in. No, I'm not doing anything. Make yourself at home."

Pete shoved Patrick's pillow under his crossed arms, settled his chin on top of them, and sighed. "I am in love, Patrick. The gods of love have touched my heart, and my soul is set aflame. It burns so deep, Patrick. So _deep_."

Patrick flipped a page of his history book. "That's something you should probably get checked out by a doctor."

Pete ignored him. "She's perfect, Patrick. She was at the Shatterbright show last night, and she was wearing this gray pea coat that made her look like a lesbian, but like a really sleek posh one? And she's really tall. Like, mostly legs, you know. Unbelievable legs. Her hands were really long too. _Elegant_ , but mostly sexy, and I was thinking about how she could…"

Patrick squawked. "Fourteen, here!"

"But her nails were colored in with Sharpie," Pete continued smoothly. "And her smile was crooked like stars."

Patrick bit down on his lip to stop from snickering. "That doesn't even make sense."

"It would if you knew her," Pete sighed. "But no, seriously. _Hands_ …”  
Patrick chucked his notebook at Pete's head. " _Fourteen_!"

"Exactly! You should _want_ to hear about this stuff!"

"Not from you," Patrick declared. "In fact, ugh, not _about_ you either. Stop telling Joe about your sexcapades with whats-her-face. I don't want to hear about them secondhand.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Pete said dreamily. “I’m gonna call her and we’re gonna adopt a farm of chinchillas and move to the arctic and make a snow castle of our love and…” The sudden expression of dismay on Pete’s face was almost comical. “Except. Oh. Oh fuck, _Patrick_. Patrick, I didn’t get her number! I didn’t even get her last name!” 

Patrick looked up from his history book, eyebrows raised. “Did you even get her first name?” 

Pete’s eyes went a little unfocused for a minute. “Mikey,” he said dreamily. “Mikey…” Then he scowled. “Mikey _something_.” 

Patrick rolled his eyes and sighed. “And what did you and this Mikey do, since you apparently skipped the introduction segment of the evening?” 

“Talked, mostly. Made out a little,” Pete said offhandedly. Patrick made an “ew” face. “But Patrick, oh my God, I’m going to have to hang out at the Sunshine Pill every night until _forever_ , until I am an old, old man, only to find out she was lab partner’s second-cousin by marriage visiting from _Omaha_ and in the meantime she got married to a potato farmer and had six kids and cured fucking cancer, or something, and…” 

The greatest tragedy of Patrick’s life was the point in his conversations with Pete when he ran out of things to throw at Pete’s head. “Dude, would you chill? You know the only people who go there are locals. She probably even goes to our school, you drama queen. Fuck. I’m telling mom not to give you any more cookies. The sugar does things to you.”

Pete visibly brightened. "A good point, Von Stump. I will stalk her at school and leaves notes in her locker and convince her to adopt blind, Uruguayan babies with me.” He threw himself onto Patrick’s back, only clinging tighter when Patrick flailed. “And your mother will deny me nothing, she _adores_ me.” 

“Someone’s gotta,” Patrick grunted, shifting around until Pete’s elbows weren’t piercing any of his internal organs. “Now let me do my homework, or they’ll demote me back to Junior High.” 

Pete buried the point of his chin into Patrick’s shoulder and grinned. “Number Four is wrong.” 

It was entirely too easy to smack Pete upside the head at this angle. 

| |

On Monday, Frank asked Gerard if he knew that, on average, one hundred people each year choke to death on ballpoint pens? 

Gerard spat the pen cap out onto the desk. Then threw it at Frank’s head for good measure. 

Frank ducked out of the way, grinning. 

Gerard let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Because this was going to be okay. It was. 

| | 

On Tuesday, Frank passed Gerard a note that said _did u know if u put alcohol on a scorpion, it will sting itself to death?!_

Gerard passed a note back with a drawing of a scorpion, which Frank, to Bob’s amusement and Mr. Ripley’s chagrin, declared to be the most awesome scorpion in the history of ever, and safety-pinned it to his bookbag. 

Gerard was in love with a kindergartener, oh God. 

| | 

On Wednesday, Gerard spent most of class drawing vampires and zombies instead of what ester molecules were supposed to look like. When Frank peered over his shoulder halfway through, Gerard couldn’t help stiffening up. Oops. He _was_ supposed to be taking notes, so they wouldn’t _both_ fail, and… 

“Ooh,” Frank sighed happily, in a tone most people reserved for Very Shiny Things. “Ooh, me next,” Frank said, shoving his hand on top of Gerard’s notebook, and giggled. Mr. Ripley gave them a cursory once-over before rolling his eyes and turning back to the blackboard. 

Gerard blinked at Frank's arm. His brain went through a quick succession of _Frank, skin, Frank, skin, skin, skin_ before taking a deep breath and holding down Frank's wrist with one hand. Frank's fingers twitched and Gerard felt the tendons stretch. It took a minute, or maybe five – Mikey said that Gerard always started to zone whenever he started to work – but then he nodded decisively and started to draw, sharp lines and softer curves in cool ink. 

In that far-off, distant sort of place that Gerard always went when he was working, he idly noted that Frank had stopped. His fingers weren't moving. He wasn't fidgeting or breathing loudly just to be annoying. He was quiet. Still. Gerard glanced up just to see, just a little, and Frank's eyes were a little wide, watching Gerard, his tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth. 

Frank licked his lips, Gerard's pen slipped, and Bob coughed. 

| | 

On Thursday, in the middle of Mr. Ripley droning on about the period table, Frank dropped his chin onto Gerard’s shoulder and said, casually, “Did you know that sperm ejaculates at thirty-five miles an hour?” 

Gerard choked on his pen cap while Frank cackled in his ear. 

“That’s, uh… speeding in a school zone?” Gerard offered, once he could breathe. 

“I’ll speed in your school zone,” Frank said gleefully, and Gerard had to concentrate on breathing again. 

Bob gave them a strange look, but still didn’t say anything. 

| | 

On Friday they had a test all period, and Gerard tried not to blush when Frank’s foot scraped over his underneath the table. 

After they’d handed in their test booklets back to Mr. Ripley, Frank leaned in towards Gerard and whispered, “Well, that blew,” close enough for Gerard to actually shiver. Oh my _God_ , he might just have to go die. “At least it’s the last test for three weeks,” Frank continued cheerfully, scooping up his books and throwing them haphazardly into his bag. 

“Three weeks?” Gerard repeated, puzzled. Then the light dawned. “Oh. _Oh_ , right, yeah…” 

Frank smirked at him. “You totally forgot break was coming up, didn’t you?” 

Gerard gave him the stinkeye. “Forget about getting three weeks off from school? I think not.” Gerard had totally remembered that part. Plus, you know, Christmas and presents and stuff. Unfortunately, he was just now remembering that ‘school’ and ‘Frank’ went arm and arm. “Three weeks, though. We should hang out sometime, you know? At least watch movies, or something.” Gerard scraped his foot across the floor. “I mean, I know we haven’t, but…” 

“Awesome!” Frank interjected, grabbing hold of Gerard’s arm and rooting around in his pockets for a Sharpie. “Lemme give you my number!” 

Gerard stood as still as he could while Frank scrawled his number up Gerard’s arm. 

“Can you read it? It’s kind of like… its total chicken scratch,” he added sheepishly. “Gimme yours?” 

Gerard’s tongue felt too big for his mouth, or something. It was a bit of a weird feeling. “S-sure.” He took the Sharpie from Frank’s hand and wrote his number carefully between the swirls and scrawls Frank had already placed on his skin. It took him a second too long to let go. 

“Awesome.” Frank beamed at Gerard before skipping off down the hall. “Call me whenever,” he shouted over his shoulder. I’m going to be totally bored!” 

“Uh.” Gerard blinked. “Uh, okay?” he called after Frank, and immediately felt like a huge liar. There was no way he was going to have the guts to call Frank over break. Gerard started to hyperventilate when he tried to order pizza over the phone, much less talk to someone he actually knew. 

| | 

A week into break, Gerard woke up to Bob poking him in the back with a drumstick. 

“I was afraid I was going to need this,” Bob said grimly. 

Gerard gurgled. 

Bob sighed, before shoving something hot into Gerard’s flailing hands. 

“I warned him that you were going to need coffee,” Mikey said. 

Gerard fucking loved Mikey. 

“Ray hadn’t heard from you in a week,” Bob said. “But dead bodies kind of freak him out, I guess, so I told him I’d come check on you.” 

“Thanks?” 

“A word. Progress.” 

Gerard gave him the finger. 

“And hand signals!” 

Gerard slurped the rest of his coffee as obnoxiously as he knew how. 

Bob sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. “Jesus fucking Christ, Gerard. Dude. You are _rank_. When was the last time you showered?” 

Gerard thought about it for a minute. Then he looked at Mikey, who shrugged. “Maybe Monday?” 

Bob wrinkled his nose. “It _is_ Monday.” 

“Then last Monday, probably.” 

“ _Jesus_. Get your ass in the shower.” 

“Gonna come in with me?” Gerard said snidely. “Or is that just Frank?” 

Bob’s eyes narrowed. “Man, you’re stupid.” 

“Stupid like a _fox_ ,” Gerard snapped, but went to take his shower.

| |

Once Gerard came out of the shower – more than a half an hour later, and actually feeling a lot more like a human being, okay, he could admit it – Bob was rocking out at Guitar Hero, and Mikey was still sitting by the computer. 

“Bob’s birthday is next week,” Mikey said, apropos of nothing, and Gerard gaped at him. 

“Uhm. Happy birthday?” 

Bob grunted, and nailed the solo on Knights of Cydonia. 

Mikey rolled his eyes. “I told him he should come over for New Year’s and celebrate. Ray’s already coming, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“So you should ask Frank,” Mikey said simply, and Gerard almost turned around and walked back into the bathroom. 

“Yeah, good idea, Mikes. Except not.” 

Bob stopped playing long enough to look at Gerard, expression serious. “If you don’t call him,” Bob said evenly. “I’m gonna have to do it, and he’s going to think you’re not talking to him again.”  
Gerard squawked. 

“In fact,” Bob continued. “I’m going to _tell_ him you’re not talking to him and you’re in one of your pissy little bitch fits, and drawing vampire werewolf aliens all over the bedroom walls to symbolize the torment of your soul that comes from not being in his presence.” 

“Fuck you!” 

Bob ignored him. “And, I dunno, maybe throw in something about your burgeoning alcoholism, and doing lines off of hookers, off _Jersey_ hookers – ” And normally Gerard would have been all over Bob for that one, defending Jersey, but the _hookers_ , okay, he has to give Bob that one. “And listening to Celine Dion. Yes. Celine, Gerard. And Barbara Streisand. Bette Midler. Cher.” 

“Cheeeeer,” Mikey bleated and tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a grin. 

Gerard was quite possibly going to have an aneurism. Bob watched his face turn from vampire pale, to vampire pale with red spots high on his cheeks, to _purple_. It was probably far more entertaining than it should have been. 

“I rue the day I met you, Bob Bryar,” Gerard finally said, dramatically, his face reverting one stage to pasty-tinged-with-red. “I rue the day you sat at our lunch table, and I _do not_ rue the day I threw a pencil at your head.” 

Mikey perked up instantly. “You threw a pencil at Bob’s head? And he let you _live_?” 

Bob shrugged. “It was Gerard. I figured there was some deranged reason for it.” 

“There was,” Gerard said sullenly. “But now I wish I’d done it out of _spite_.” 

| | 

“Call him, or I’m going to get Bob,” Mikey said, after watching Gerard stare at the phone for twenty minutes, fingers hovering over the keys. 

“I hate you,” Gerard mewled pitifully. “You were adopted. Circus performers left you on our doorstep.” 

“Call him!” 

“You call him!” Gerard yelled back, face flushing. “Mikes, you know I always sound like an idiot on the phone.” 

“You sound like an idiot all the time,” Mikey said. “If he doesn’t know you’re an idiot by now, he’ll never notice.” 

Gerard narrowed his eyes. “I’m forgetting why I drive you to school in the mornings.” 

Mikey shrugged. 

Gerard huffed, before stomping into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. 

“I’m going to be right outside the door,” Mikey announced, loudly. “Blatantly eavesdropping, so don’t pussy out, or I _will_ tell Bob, and we go back to the part where we expose you to Frank as the basement dwelling geek you are.” 

“I hate you,” Gerard repeated weakly. 

“Bob!” Mikey yelled. “Bob, Gerard is being a chickenshit!” 

Gerard had never dialed a number so fast in his life. 

“It’s ringing!” he yelled. “It’s ringing, okay, you fuck—” 

“Hello?” 

“Oh, uhm. Hi. Hi, is Frank there?” 

“What, you don’t recognize my voice over the phone, dumbass?” 

“Shut up,” Gerard shot back automatically. Which, okay, telling the person you were on the phone with to shut up kind of defeated the purpose, but Gerard was very easily flustered. “I mean, uhm…” 

Frank snickered. “Aw, Gee, baby, don’t be like that.” 

If it was possible, Gerard got even _more_ flustered, and blurted out, “Saturday!” 

“… Saturday?” 

“Saturday!” Gerard repeated. “It’s, uhm. Kind of a thing? It’s Bob’s birthday on the thirty-first, so we thought we’d have a party. Like, kind of? Just me and Mikey and Bob and Ray, and you, hanging out in the basement, or whatever. Do New Year’s and Bob’s birthday all at once.” 

“Cool!” Frank said, and Gerard could picture the grin that would be on his face. “What time?” 

“Oh, uh.” Clearly, Gerard had not thought this through properly. “Ray usually shows up sometime after dinner? Whenever, you know. We’re not picky. We’ll grab some pizzas, whatever’s in the liquor cabinet, video games. Whatever.” 

“Cool,” Frank said again, and Gerard tried not to giggle like a thirteen year old girl. Or a thirteen year old _person_ , really. God knows Gerard had done enough obnoxious giggling as a thirteen year old boy. 

“Yeah. So… so, yeah, see you Saturday, I guess, bye,” Gerard rushed out, slurring the last few words into one sound, before clicking the talk button on the phone and burying his head in his hands. If he starting hyperventilating, he’d never live it down. 

“I think that went really well,” Mikey said encouragingly through the door. “I mean, considering it was you talking to Frank.” 

Gerard groaned. 

“Don’t forget, you’re probably already sitting on the toilet if you need to throw up.” 

There was a low rumbling sound from the room. 

“You’d think so, but Gerard’s thrown up in the sink before,” Mikey explained. “Hey. Hey, Gee, remember that time you threw up in mom’s vase?” 

| | 

Patrick’s mother, though she adored Pete, was seemingly unable to make the leap of faith to allow her fourteen year old out on New Year’s Eve. More was the pity. Pete would pay _big money_ to see Patrick drunk. He’s already plotting birthday shenanigans. Or possibly St. Patrick’s Day shenanigans. The joke was too obvious and awesome not to use. 

Since Pete didn’t have to worry about breaking Patrick in, he’d gone straight to Gabe’s party. Gabe was… well, Gabe was many things, but a great party throw-er was definitely one of them. He was also willing to listen to Pete talk about whatever he wanted as long as Pete was willing to listen to the Cobra in return. (Pete was always up to hearing about the Cobra. Seriously, what the shit was Gabe smoking?). 

“You have to meet him, though. He’s a little genius!” Pete said cheerfully, pulling on the sleeves of Gabe’s hoodie. “I want to steal him and make him my pet Patrick forever!” 

Gabe nodded solemnly. “The basement, dude. They never escape the basement.” 

Andy shook his head. “I’m pretty sure Patrick’s not old enough to be kept in your basement. Even consensually.” 

Pete began to pout. This was unfortunately true. 

“You know who _would_ let you lock them up in your basement though?” Gabe asked, leaning into Pete until all semblance of personal space had been obliterated. “Alicia Simmons.” 

Pete shrugged. 

“Dude.” Gabe waved his hands around so frenetically that Pete actually ducked. “Aren’t you going to…?” 

“Nah.” Pete was pretty secure in his destiny with Mikey Something. “I met this girl the other night. And she’s like, totally the love of my life.” 

“Uh huh. You’re not just waiting a few days for the infection to clear up, or something?” 

“No, seriously,” Pete continued. “She’s, like.” He waved a hand. “You know?” 

“Uh huh.” Gabe handed Pete his drink. “You need this more than me, clearly.” 

Pete shrugged before tossing it back. He was decently sure Gabe wouldn’t roofie his own drink. 

| | 

Gerard spent the days and hours leading up to the party like a man on death row. There had been a small part of him seriously contemplating writing a will, because the prospect of out-of-school-Frank honestly felt like it would kill him. 

Mikey made Gerard answer the door every time the bell rang, and when it was finally Frank, time seemed to stand still. Gerard stared at Frank through his hair. 

Frank stared back, before raising an eyebrow, saying, "Aren't you gonna let me in?" He reached out to tug on a lock of Gerard’s hair. 

Gerard stepped back so quickly Frank actually yanked out a few of hairs. “Ow. Uhm.” 

“Oh shit! Sorry, I –” 

“Everybody’s downstairs?” Gerard blurted again. “So…” 

They stared at each other for a minute. 

Frank tried to smile a little. “Downstairs, you said?” 

 

[AND THEY CONTINUE TO BE AWKWARD TURTLES] 

 

“Frank,” Bob said carefully. “Are you chewing on Ray’s hair?” 

Frank shook his head furiously. Ray’s hair waved back and forth. Bob reached for the back of Frank’s neck, and gave it a careful shake. Ray’s hair shuddered again. 

“Uh huh,” Bob said, satisfied. “Toro, you want me to rough him up a bit?” 

Ray sighed. “I’m surprised he didn’t try earlier, to be honest.” 

Frank spat out the mouthful of Ray’s hair and grinned. “Yeah, motherfuckers. I’ve got _restraint_.” 

“You’ve probably got _rabies_ , with all the shit you put in your mouth, Jesus,” Bob said, but somewhat admiringly. 

Gerard was _really_ trying not to think of things Frank could put in his mouth. 

“He’s lucky he’s tiny,” Bob continued. 

“It’s like a… whatsit,” Gerard slurred. “Mechanism, thing.” 

Ray and Bob exchanged one of their quick looks. “Survival mechanism?” Ray offered. 

Gerard sat up so quickly he almost fell forward onto Ray. “Right, yes! A survival mechanism. Like, God knew he was going to be an annoying little shit, so he made him all tiny and cute, so people wouldn’t kill him. ‘Cause if he were normal sized? He’d be _dead_.” 

Frank giggled. “Fuck off. I’m tiny because it is awesome to be tiny, unlike Thing One and Thing Two, here,” he said drunkenly, gesturing towards Ray and Bob. “You know who dies in the zombie apocalypse? Not the quick tiny guy, nuh uh.” 

“I can fit you in a suitcase,” Bob pointed out. “A _suitcase_ , Frank. I don’t think the zombies would have much trouble with a guy who fits in a suitcase.” 

Frank scowled. “One time, you fit me in a suitcase. One time!” 

“A suitcase?” Ray asked. “When did Bob put you in a suitcase?” 

“We were using it to approximate a locker,” Bob explained. Behind him Frank nodded seriously. 

“That’s kind of cool. Most people don’t fit in a suitcase,” Mikey said seriously. 

Gerard flopped back onto the bed. “Most people don’t make friends with people they spill acid on.” 

“Point.” 

“I!” Frank said brightly. “Am _clearly_ not most people, motherfuckers.” 

Gerard couldn’t agree more. 

 

[morning after stuff. with pancakes. Gerard stares like a creeper.] 

 

| | 

On the first day back from winter break, Pete accosted Mikey after school with a "hi, my name is Pete and I'll be your chauffer this afternoon!" and an arm clasped around Mikey's shoulders as if to say that now Pete had started talking, there was no easy way out of this. 

“Uhm,” Mikey said. “Hi?” 

“Hi!” Pete beamed at Mikey before shoving him into the passenger’s side of the car. “Just tell me where to turn and stuff, okay?” 

“Okay?” Mikey wasn’t sure why everything he said was suddenly punctuated by a question mark. Maybe because he had a lot of questions. Like, why was Pete driving him home? That was a fairly important question. “You have to… left on Delancey?” Fucking question marks. 

“Like, up past the 7-11?” 

“Yeah.” Progress. 

“Cool.” Pete took the turn with the kind of reckless abandon that Mikey wasn’t quite ready to deal with in a car that looked like it was about to fall apart. 

“And uh, the next right? Or maybe the one after, hang on.” Mikey peered at the street sign through his glasses. “Yeah, no. Next right.” 

Pete sniggered. “Your direction skills appear to be on par with my stalking skills.” 

“… Sorry?” 

“Do you have any idea how hard it was to find you? I actually had to _stalk_ you. And, okay, maybe I’ve done that a time or two before, but that was usually once my girlfriends had broken up with me already, you know? This past week was like an episode of Law and Order. Totally hardcore.” 

“Uhm.” Mikey was still a little unsure about what was going on. He’d never had a guy he’d made out with in a club stalk him before. “You could have just asked Frank.” 

Pete frowned, and the hand that had been tap-tap-tapping away on top of the steering wheel stilled. “Huh. I guess that’s true. But you were totally worth the effort,” he concluded grandly, and Mikey felt a warm rush of… something. 

“It’s the one coming up on the left,” he said quietly. "White house, dark shutters.” 

“Cool, cool.” Pete pulled into the driveway. “Isn’t this like, the Way’s house? Gerard Way?” 

Mikey snorted. “Well, yeah. It’s my house.” Guess Pete was totally as flakey as rumor led him to believe. 

“But I thought Gerard had...” Pete turned to stare at him. “You're Gerard's brother," he said slowly. 

"Yeah," Mikey answered, drawing the word out, his voice laced with something like amusement. 

"You're Gerard Way's little brother. Mikey Way?" 

"Mikey," Mikey said, and nodded, touching a finger to his chest. Then, pointing lazily at Pete, "Pete," just in case Pete had forgotten some where along the way. 

"So, hey. Okay. You're a dude," Pete mumbled. "With, like, a dick and everything," he went on. Mikey blinked back, quirking an eyebrow. "Because that's what dudes have and. Right. You're really pretty, though. For a guy, I mean." 

“Thanks,” Mikey said easily. He still had no idea what was going on. 

“So, uhm.” 

“Oh.” Mikey said. “Thanks for the ride home.” 

“Right. Right, no problem.” 

“Later,” Mikey said easily, and slipped out of the car and into the house. 

| | 

Pete spent two days in seclusion. On the third day he did the only thing he could think of, the only thing that'd ever helped anything in his life. 

He called Patrick. 

It took thirty-two and a half calls before Patrick picked up, and Pete filled up his voicemail with such classics as "Pick up the phone," "Please pick up," "Patrick. Paaaaaatrick. Pick up, 'Trick. Trickster. Lunchbox. Tricky Trickster Von Stumpenheim," "C'mon. Pick up," "Seriously, pick up your fucking phone," and "Dude. Seriously! I'm in crisis here!" 

In the meantime, Pete thought about the curve of Mikey’s smile, how his shaggy hair fell into his eyes, the one twisted, scraggly looking tooth near the front of his mouth, and the way he kept totally, utterly still except for the drumming of his fingers along to whatever song he was humming along to. 

| | 

“Pete. Please stop telling me about all the gay sex you’re having. I’m fourteen. You could probably get arrested for this.” 

“You don’t have to let me in the house, ‘Trick,” Pete said snottily. 

Patrick sighed. “If I don’t let you in you show up with a boombox outside my window at three in the morning. It’s the lesser of two evils.” 

Pete leered. “I’ll show you the lesser of two evils.” 

“One of these days I’m seriously going to go find an adult.” 

“What? So you can tell them Pete Wentz likes cock?” 

Patrick made a strangling noise. 

“Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third likes cock. Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz is a _fag_ ,” Pete drawled, and giggled a little to himself. “A fairy. Shirtlifter. Pillowbiter. Ass bandit. Bromancer. A ho-mo-sexual. I mean, okay, I have a pretty faggy name, you have to admit that.” 

“Oh my God, Pete, _seriously_.” 

“But yeah. Yeah, I’m pretty sure I like cock. Or at least Mikey’s cock, so, whatever.” 

Patrick started humming loudly to himself. 

Pete sighed happily. “You know your dulcet tones always soothe my rabid soul, Pattycakes.” 

Patrick threw a pillow at Pete’s head. “ _Rabid soul_. Sure.” 

Pete caught the pillow and clutched it to his chest, sighing wistfully. "Seriously. You, you calm the epic battle that is my inner turmoil. Your very presence dulls the roaring of my unkempt spirit. Our friendship is ephemeral and squishy!” 

“Do you even know what ephemeral means?” Patrick went for another pillow and Pete dodged it easily, rolling closer to the foot of Patrick's bed. “Or how to spell it?” 

Pete curled a hand around Patrick's ankle. "I think," he started, voice suddenly serious, and huffed out a laugh. "I... I really like him. Like, really." 

Patrick tilted his head. “Then just go for it.” 

“Really?” 

“Dude.” Patrick kicked Pete’s hand off of his ankle and threw himself back on the bed. “You’re _Pete Wentz_. Was there ever really any question?” 

Pete grudgingly had to agree. 

“Plus,” Patrick continued. “You asked me to marry you the first time we met. I don’t think your heterosexuality was ever all that secure.” 

Pete smashed the pillow into Patrick’s face with an unnecessary amount of glee. 

“Motherfucker!” 

| | 

For the end of their biology unit, everyone in the class had to dissect a pig fetus. 

Didn’t most schools dissect frogs? Gerard thought desperately. Not that a frog would have been much better, but a _fetus_? Maybe Gerard could wave the vegan, please-don’t-hurt-the-animals card. Although, considering Frank was digging around in the dissection tray with the kind of enthusiasm most kids saved for pizza Fridays, Gerard could just let him do all the work. 

Yeah, okay. That was probably a better plan. 

“Uhm. Everything going okay?” he asked tentatively. Queasiness aside, Gerard felt like he should do something. 

“Totally,” Frank said, flashing Gerard a bloody, covered-in-something-slick thumbs up. “Did you know pigs orgasm for thirty minutes?” 

Gerard could feel his eyes trying to pop out of his head. “I… no. But I am intrigued. Grossed out, but intrigued.” 

Frank giggled before briefly arranging his face into a mock-serious expression. “Poor little fetus. He never even had a chance to experience it.” 

Gerard spared a brief moment’s thought about poking some of the less gross fetus-y bits with his pencil, until he remembered that was a bad idea if he was going to use it, oh, ever again. 

Frank, meanwhile, continued rummaging around happily, gloves and goggles in place. “Do you think this is supposed to be its liver?” he asked, holding up something that looked vaguely like a clump of purple play-doh. 

“I… I have no idea.” 

Frank shook the organ back and forth before holding it up to his nose to smell it. He shrugged. “We’re gonna call it the liver,” he declared, and threw it into one of their petri dishes. 

“Uhm. Okay.” For a second Gerard was afraid Frank was going to take a bite out of it. After he drank some of the dish-soap-and-onion mixture they’d been using to extract DNA, it wouldn’t surprise Gerard any. 

“Dude. Are you sure _you’re_ okay? You’re looking, like.” Frank made a wavy hand gesture with the scalpel. “I dunno, a little green?” 

“I’m okay.” 

“Uh huh. I know all the blood and fluids and stuff freaks you out. Plus, the pointy objects vaguely resembling needles?” Gerard was trying really hard not to look at the dissection pins. “So if you want to just zone and draw werewolves tearing apart vampires, or whatever,” Frank continued, “knock yourself out. I’ve got this.” 

Even though Frank was holding a sharp object covered in blood and bodily fluid, and he looked a little bug-eyed behind the goggles, Gerard totally could have kissed him. 

| | 

 

[Period of time in which Pete is romantic, in a Pete-like fashion. He writes a poem for Mikey, and puts it in his locker. possibly writes him a terrible song. and not so subtly stalks him] 

 

"So. I think I like you, Mikeyway. Or I'm pretty sure I like you, but I might also be _in_ like with you and we should go out, you know, because of the like. If it's mutual. We should share in the mutualisticness of our like. Right?" 

Mikey stared at the Pete-shaped shadow looming over him, and finally up at Pete. 

Everyone else stared at Mikey. 

Mikey blinked. He needed a minute to process that, the words, and the way Pete was smiling down at him, all nerves and hopefulness. 

When he didn't say anything, and kept not saying anything, Pete's smile sputtered out and died. "Oh. Okay. So, no. That's… uh, cool. Later, Mikeyway," and turned to walk away with his head tucked down and his shoulders up to his ears. 

"Wait?" Mikey wasn't sure the words came out of his mouth, couldn't remember deciding to say anything, but Pete slowed to a stop just a few feet away. He _stopped_ , and Mikey had no idea what to do next. He looked at his friends. 

Bob and Ray reached into Bob's bag of chips in unison. 

Gerard gaped. 

Frank kicked Mikey in the leg and hissed, "Go _after_ him, dumbass." 

Gerard recovered enough to turn and glare at Frank. "Are you kidding? Don't _encourage_ him. That's... that's _Pete Wentz_. Ugh. I can’t even – my little brother, going out with that elitist fucking jock riffraff--" 

"Riffraff? Are you serious? How are you real?" Frank giggled, but to Mikey it was a distant sound, along with Gerard’s squawking reply. 

Mikey made his way over to where Pete was still standing, fidgeting, and nudged Pete’s shoulder with his own. There was, apparently, a huge decision here that he was unaware of. "I think," he started, voice soft. "I think we could share in the mutualisticness of our like. It uh…” Mikey shrugged, and then nodded a little for emphasis. “It’s been going good so far, right?” 

It took Pete a moment (or two, or three) but when he finally turned to look at Mikey, his smile was blinding. "Okay. Okay. Awesome. Mikey Mikey Mikeyway," Pete chanted, and hugged Mikey, burying his face in Mikey's neck and slipping his hands into the back pockets of Mikey's jeans. Mikey, for his part, smiled over Pete’s shoulder. 

Gerard gagged. 

Frank sighed happily and kicked him in the shin. Hard. 

Bob was perhaps just a little sad there were no more chips. 

| | 

For the rest of the day, Gerard tells anyone who will listen that he was completely traumatized, okay, because of stupid Pete Wentz macking on his brother, and his brother’s sudden surprise gayness – not that there was anything wrong with being gay, because of course Gerard believed in the expression of all alternate sexualities, but it was a little much to deal with a supposedly heterosexual younger brother for sixteen years, only to find he was gay with _Pete Wentz_ – and oh god, who was going to tell their mother? And who was going to save Mikey from all the school homophobes, because it wasn’t going to be Pete and it wasn’t going to be Gerard, okay, there were babies with greater upper arm strength than Gerard – 

Frank decided that the only solution to this was to get high in the bathroom. Gerard was not so sure that this was a proper solution, but, well. If Frank asked. (It wasn’t technically peer pressure, Gerard reassured himself. Frank wasn’t pressuring. Gerard was just stupid for him). 

They holed themselves up in the bathroom, under the window with their backs up against the wall so that they were facing the door – at Gerard's insistence, so that they could see right away if anyone were coming in. ("Right," Frank had said, "Because this is magic weed, able to keep people from noticing when you're stoned off your ass." Gerard had rolled his eyes, tugging Frank down. "Just shut up, and light up, fuck face.") 

By the time the actually started smoking, Gerard was just glad the wall was there to hold them both up. He patted the wall affectionately. It was a really awesome wall, dingy blue tiles and all. 

If this were three hits ago, the fact that Frank was basically snuggling with Gerard under the window of the boy's bathroom would've been enough to give Gerard a panic attack. But it wasn't. In fact, it was actually five and half hits in between the two of them. ("That last one doesn't count," Frank said. "I coughed from, like, all that fresh air coming in from the window." Gerard rolled his eyes, or tried to, but just ended up staring at the ceiling. "Make it half. It was totally half.") 

So instead of freaked out Gerard was as chill as he could ever hope to be and it felt good. Nice, the way Frank was pressed up against him, all warm. He nuzzled the top of Frank's head and sighed. "Frank. Frankie. Hi, Frankie Frank Frank," Gerard sing-songed. "You are awesome. Awesome and pocket-sized and I want to keep you in my pocket forever and ever, amen." 

Frank giggled. "I can't fit in your pocket, stupid," he says, and for a moment Gerard was honestly  
heartbroken. 

"But you should. You should stay and be my Frank forever. I would make a pocket for you to fit in. Like, totally," Gerard said, very seriously. 

"I don't think you're big enough," Frank mumbled from somewhere under Gerard's armpit, now. He squirmed and wormed a hand under Gerard's shirt. "I bet Bob is, though. Bob is, like, a tower." 

"Bob is a _mountain_ ," Gerard breathed wonderingly. He could kind of see the word. It was smoky and cool and winds up and up and up, and it tasted kind of misty. "Mountainous." 

Frank stopped fidgeting suddenly, and Gerard heard him squeak out, "Ninja." 

"No, definitely a mountain." 

" _Ninja_." 

"Mountain." 

"I'd rather be a ninja." 

And that was funny because Gerard could have sworn that last one wasn't him or Frank. Actually, it kind of sounded like- 

"That _was_ me, dorkface. Open your eyes," Bob said and Gerard always did this when he was high, or drunk -- forgot that he was talking and ended up narrating what was going on. He opened his eyes just in time to catch Bob rolling his own. 

"You do that even when you aren't stoned," he said. 

Frank muttered, "Told you. Ninja." 

Bob sighed. “School just let out, geniuses. You stick around here any longer, one of the teachers is going to find you. Do you need a ride home?” 

Gerard started to shake his head, but then the room started to spin a little, and he had to throw his arm around Frank’s waist to keep from falling over. “Yes. Yes, probably a good idea. Is Mikey…” 

“I think Mikey found his own ride home,” Bob said, as diplomatically as possible. Gerard groaned, but Frank only giggled. 

“Don’t tell me,” Gerard pleaded. “Please, please don’t tell me –” 

“I’m hungry,” Frank interrupted. “Bob. Bob, Bob, Bob, will you stop at the taco place on Third? I would trade my grandmother for a quesadilla.” 

“That means you are both stoned and a bad grandson,” Bob said wryly, before sighing. “Yeah, okay. Just, let’s get your stuff and get the fuck out of here, before we get caught? Okay, Tweedledee?” 

Frank nodded. 

“Tweedledum?” 

Gerard frowned. “Why’m I Tweedledum? Seems like that should definitely be Frank.” 

“Hey!” 

Bob grabbed both of them by the shoulder and shook. Gerard whined. “I’m willing to let you both share the name,” Bob said pleasantly. “Seriously. Shut up, and let’s go.” 

“You are a cruel man, Bob Bryar.” 

“A cruel man who is getting you tacos.” 

“Tacos,” Frank cooed. “You are my favorite, Bob Bryar. Never let me tell you any different.” 

Bob rolled his eyes. 

| |

“So.” Mikey scratched a little at the hair on the back of his neck. “I kind of think I’m gay.” 

Gerard pulled a face. “You _think_?” 

“Or I think I’m kind of gay? One of the two.” 

Gerard rolled his eyes and went back to flipping through his comic. “Good thing you’ve finally figured that out, considering you’ve been letting Pete Wentz feel you up all the time.” 

Mikey blinked. He kind of had, hadn’t he? 

“I mean,” Gerard continued. “Pete Wentz, Mikes? _Seriously_?” 

Mikey rolled his eyes. For all Gerard kept saying he was about equality, he could be pretty narrow-minded sometimes. “At least my boyfriend can’t be mistaken for a fifth-grader.” 

Gerard scowled. “Frank is _not_ my boyfriend, thank you very much.” 

“But you want him to be.” 

Gerard's scowl deepened because, well, yeah. But it's not like he was going to admit that. 

“Everyone knows you’re stupid over him,” Mikey added nonchalantly. “Except, you know, Frank.” 

Gerard dropped the comic and pulled the blankets up over his head. Maybe he could slowly suffocate himself. 

| | 

The next day at school Pete sat with Mikey at lunch, ate his food and held his hand and played footsie underneath the table. Gerard nearly had an apoplectic fit. Ray shrugged and went back to eating his Cheetos. Frank and Pete engaged in what looked like a mutually damaging hug-noogie-bodyslam combo, and Bob looked mildly – which for Bob translated to something like ‘profoundly’ – disturbed. Mikey, predictably, had no reaction at all. 

"It's like he's a vampire we invited into our house," Gerard said to Bob, who seemed most inclined to share his pain. "He won't _go away_ , and Mikey and Frank have already turned." 

"We can-- ow! _Motherfucker_ \-- hear you, Gerard," Frank panted, muffled by Pete's armpit, and shoved his hands down Pete's pants to do something that made Pete yelp and Mikey raise his eyebrows a little. 

Pete leered. “Don’t worry, Mikeyway. I’m saving myself for you.” 

Gerard gagged. 

| | 

[languisity: this is frank's reaction to mikey and pete hooking up. which is really more of mikey not running away while pete clings to him. like a clingy thing.  
inaprettyhowtown: right  
inaprettyhowtown: he's like. I AM A GENIUS!  
inaprettyhowtown: and then they're all happy together  
inaprettyhowtown: and he's like... I'm a genius?  
languisity: oh frank.  
languisity: pete and mikey pwn his evil. they pwn it gud.] 

 

“I’m apparently a matchmaking genius,” Frank says thoughtfully. “And I didn’t even _know_.” 

 

| | 

Mikey got a text from Pete at exactly 11:11 that read _meet me bhnd th bleechers_. It took Mikey a few minutes to decide what he thought. This was one of the longest and most grammatically correct messages Pete had sent since they started... whatever this was they were doing. He decided to meet him anyway and didn’t bother responding. 

The walk to the school was a stealth mission involving the casualty of an ugly vase, a trip in a ditch in the sidewalk in front of their house (What the hell? Was that even _there_ before?) and a five block walk before Mikey finally made it to the back of the football field's bleachers. It was cold and he was starting to hear his brother's voice in the back of his head telling Mikey he could've at least left a note letting Gerard know where to find the body, before he spotted Pete. 

Pete was tucked under one of the lower sets of seats with his knees to his chest, scowling straight ahead and rocking side to side faintly. Mikey started towards him, and Pete must have caught the motion because his head turned sharply and just like that he was grinning at Mikey. Pete's smile was so big, and his teeth so white that they almost glow in the streetlight, and Mikey wondered at how instead of being unnerving it just made him want to smile back. 

“Mikey, Mikeyway,” Pete said, sing-song and low, and the sound went right to the base of Mikey’s spine. “I had a dream about you, Mikeyway.” It was like a confession, low voiced and a little hoarse, and he patted the sparse grass beside himself, inviting. Mikey waited a moment before sitting down beside Pete. Pete scooted closer, close enough for their jackets to brush up against one another, not quite enough pressure to actually feel, before Pete started up again. 

"I dreamed it was summer and were we at this, like, circus? No, I mean… I guess it was more of an amusement park. And everything was bright and happy. The sun was shining and it almost hurt, it was so bright, but it wasn't hot, just nice, and the sky was so fucking blue and all the rides," Pete exhaled noisily, and when he started speaking again his voice was softer, dreamy. "Man, it was like they had, like, ten coats of fresh paint. Polished and bright, and it was perfect, Mikeyway, and we went on _all_ the rides. Like, all of them. And I kissed you on the ferris wheel.” 

“Sounds nice,” Mikey said. And it did, kind of. Mikey has never really been the type to visit amusement parks – he and Gerard had been basement dwellers even from their early days – but that sounded like something he could do, going on rides. Kissing Pete. 

“Would you do that with me?” Pete asked suddenly. “Go to an amusement park?” 

“Like a date?” 

“Yeah. A summer date, Mikeyway. The perfect summer date.” 

“Only if you kiss me at the top of the ferris wheel.” Mikey looked over at Pete through the bird’s nest fringe of his hair. “It’s not the same if you’re not at the top.” 

“The very tiptop of the ferris wheel,” Pete promised, and ducked his head down so it was even with Mikey’s, so their noses brushed over the top of Mikey’s shoulder. “Cotton-candy summer kisses under the stars, all for you.” 

| | 

[more of Frank and Gee being awkward!] 

| | 

_Mikeyway i miss u_

Mikey could feel the corners of his mouth tilting up into a smile. miss u2 he sent back, just before Pete sent a barrage of messages.  
__  
cant sleep Mikeyway  
wish u were here  
not liek th ps on a postcrd  
  
Mikey waited patiently until there was a pause longer than a minute between messages, waited until it seems like Pete had nothing else to say – which was kind of ridiculous, because Pete _always_ has something to say – but at least he’d stopped texting.  
_  
mt u @ bleechrs?_

 _midnite w th moon as our feris wheel_  
  
Mikey made it to the bleachers before Pete and sat tucked up in the usual spot with his knees to his chest, and his hands tucked under his armpits. It wasn't exactly cold, but he'd forgotten his gloves again. He hadn't wanted to fumble around in the room and maybe wake Gerard up. It was cold enough to be uncomfortable, though, cold enough for him to see each breath puff out in front of him and Mikey tucked into himself tighter, waiting. 

Pete showed up at five after twelve with a bundle under his arm, and two paper cups that had steam rising from them. 

"Hey," Pete said, kneeling gingerly, and nudged at Mikey until he took a cup. "So, I figured if we were stargazing we should have stuff," he continued, by way of explanation. It turned out Pete's definition of "stuff" was a musty, slightly threadbare blanket, two cups of hot chocolate from the Starbucks around the corner, and a half-crushed, half-melted pack of M&Ms. He made sure that their drinks had extra whipped cream, though, and that the two of them were wrapped snuggly in the blanket, and he split the M&Ms evenly. 

"Tell me stories about the constellations, Mikeyway," Pete mumbled against Mikey's ear. 

Mikey squinted up at the barely-there stars and frowned. "I don't know any," he said after a moment. 

Pete sighed, sounding put off. Mikey could hear the smile underneath though. "Then make one up." 

“Okay.” Mikey pointed to one cluster at random, shining a little brighter overhead than the rest. “That’s Romero.” 

“The zombie?” Pete asked hopefully. 

“The zombie.” 

“You are the very best boyfriend ever,” Pete said happily, and burrowed into Mikey’s shoulder, crunching M&Ms loudly in Mikey’s ear as he went. 

Mikey didn’t notice much after the world ‘boyfriend’ though. 

| | 

Mikey’s next constellation was a unicorn named Nantucket. Pete hijacked the conversation after that, talking about a bulldog named Hemingway who terrorized a colony of space chimps. That devolved into a conversation about whether Pete should be allowed to have a dog – Pete insisted yes, Mikey said no on the grounds that he was a cat person, and also that Pete would possibly accidentally kill any pet of his own. 

“So Mikeyway,” Pete started conversationally. “It has come to my subconscious’ attention that we have not made out since I found out you were in possession of boy parts.” 

Mikey wondered if he was ever going to get used to Pete’s complete lack of filter when it came to his thoughts. “No, uh. We haven’t.” 

“We should fix that,” Pete said emphatically, one hand digging into the soft spot just beneath Mikey’s ribs. “Because even though you are a boy, Mikey Way, instead of a lesbian, I still really want to bone you.” 

Mikey actually snorted this time. Pete poked him in the side. “Okay.” 

“Okay? Like, okay, you’re abstractly okay with the idea of me boning you, or, okay, yes, let us get to the boning right now?” 

Still smiling, Mikey bumped his head up against Pete’s shoulder. “Somewhere in between.” 

Pete grinned, and tilted his head down towards Mikey’s. “I can work with that.” 

| | 

Patrick woke up to the tail end of 'Don't Cha' blaring from his phone, and his first thought was of murdering his phone. Or Joe for being and asshole and changing his ringtone in the first place. The digital clock on Patrick's nightstand told him, imperiously, that it was 4:15am, and his cell phone informed him that he had eight missed calls and thirteen text messages. 

Then it started singing again. 

Patrick held it in his hand for ten solid seconds, hoping that it would either spontaneously combust, or that he at least had the stones to throw it at the wall. No dice. If it broke, his parents weren’t going to buy him a new one. 

Patrick flipped the phone open, and growled, “Pete?” Because really, it couldn’t be anyone else. 

"Coffee flavored!" Pete yelled, Patrick actually had to hold the phone away from his ear. "Coffee flavored kisses of _love_ , Patrick." 

"It's four a.m, Pete," Patrick said, and thought he sounded reasonable all things considered because, yeah, it was four in the fucking morning. 

“I know,” Pete said happily. “I just dropped Mikey off, you’re totally the first person I called.” 

Oh God, Pete was going to inflict this torture on _everyone_? “Pete. Four in the morning!” 

“Dude, I know. I think Gerard is going to come after me for stealing his brother’s innocence. And dude is skinny, but also really fucking scary, you know?” 

Patrick hadn’t resorted to sticking his fingers in his ears and going LA LA LA LA since his brother had moved out of the house, but something about Pete made him want to regress to being six years old. 

"Patrick? Patty McPatpat. You there?" 

Patrick grunted something in the affirmative and pinched the bridge of his nose. Pete kept talking. 

"Awesome. Okay. I don't even know where to start it was like.... I don't even know. Like, I thought it was supposed to be different. Guys are just... I mean, Mikey's a dude and it just felt like it was supposed to be this Big Different Thing," Patrick could hear the capitals in that. "And it wasn’t. It was just Mikey. Like, okay, his lips were kind of chapped. And the angle was sort of awkward. I smashed into his glasses, right? Dorkiest fucking thing ever. But it was _Mikey_. Mikey fucking Way. And like, I don’t know, he basically gave me his permission to put the moves on him, so I’m rounding second base, right–” 

Patrick hung up. He hung up, and he was immediately horrified right after because, okay, that was kind of a shitty thing to do, hanging up on someone. It’s reserved for really persistent telemarketers and when his last girlfriend called him, drunk, to talk about how much better she was without him. Not Pete. Because Pete was… okay, Pete has somehow become Patrick’s best friend, these past few months, which was why Patrick spent a few minutes trying to figure out why he didn't want to hear about Pete's big gay romance. 

It wasn't that Pete was being a douche about this. Well, he was, but no more than normal. It was almost sweet, in its way, and hey, Pete sounded happy. And it wasn't that Pete was dating a guy. Even if he and Pete weren't as close as they were, even if Patrick weren't more than a little bent himself, that was never anything that would've mattered. And okay, Pete maybe went a little overboard on the details sometimes, but that didn’t justify hanging up on him. 

It was just. 

Fuck. _Fuck_ , he didn’t need that. He wasn’t – 

He wasn’t going to think about it. 

He just called Pete back. 

“Dude,” Pete said, irritated. “What the fuck.” 

“I. Um. I clicked the phone shut on accident?” Patrick couldn’t lie though, and he wasn’t really selling it to begin with. “I just. I’m sorry, seriously, but. Fuck, Pete, if you’re going to call me and tell me about sucking Mikey Way’s dick, could you seriously not do it at four in the morning?” 

“Wow,” Pete huffed, obviously – and okay, who could blame him? – irritated, and Patrick’s fingers clenched tighter around the phone. “Yeah, fine, I’ll just…” 

“Are you freaking out?” Patrick interrupted. “’Cause seriously, if you’re freaking out I want you to call me, always, alright?” Patrick had learned the hard way that Pete could be entirely too intense for his own good, a little stuck in his head, sometimes, and Patrick would always be willing to try to talk him down from that. “But otherwise, consider me an admittedly pissy little bitch who needs his sleep, so maybe think fucking twice before you call me at _four in the morning_ , because that is not when most guys call their best friends to talk about how they just gave their boyfriend a blowjob, okay?” 

Pete made a snorting noise. “So what you’re saying is…” 

Patrick sighed. “This is the moral high ground, Pete. I am attempting to sleep on it.” 

Pete snorted. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’m not really freaking? I’m just kind of...” Pete made an expansive hand motion that Patrick imagined rather than heard. “You know. Thoughts, and shit.” 

“So stop bothering me and write a blog about it,” Patrick huffed, and then softened his voice. “You know I’ll read it.” 

“Yeah, yeah. You’re totally my number one fan.” 

“Always,” Patrick agreed, and Pete made a crowing noise into the phone. 

“Get some sleep, Lunchbox. I’ll pick you up and we’ll get some delicious caffeinated beverages from my favorite place on Earth.” 

“Starbucks is the least you could do. Four in the fucking morning, Jesus.” 

Pete snickered, good humor restored. “Night, Pattycakes.” 

“Night, Pete.” 

| | 

If Patrick tried really hard, he could pretend that he wasn't really doing this. People like him didn't threaten their best friend's sorta-boyfriend. That wasn't the kind of thing that happened in real life. Or, okay, maybe it did in Jersey. Whatever. 

"So he's Pete," Patrick started, doing his best to tower over Mikey. It worked a little because Mikey was sitting and Patrick was doing that annoying thing people did sometimes when they wanted to look intimidating, standing and leaning forward with his arms braced on the table, all in Mikey's personal space. 

Mikey didn't speak. Patrick frowned and went on. "He's Pete. And he's like a loud, obnoxious puppy that you let sleep in your bed because he won't learn to sleep in his own and you sorta can't sleep without him anyway. But he's _my_ dumb puppy and if you kick him, I will kill you." 

Mikey's expression didn't change, but he cleared his throat and shrugged a little. "...Right." 

Great. "Great." Now Patrick just needed a nice quiet place to die. 

“You could sit,” Mikey said after a moment. 

Patrick gaped at him. 

“No, seriously. I mean, since Pete’s your best friend, or whatever. We should be friends, right?” 

Jesus. No wonder Pete was renouncing heterosexuality if he had eyes like that blinking up at him all the time. 

“Uh. Sure.” Patrick flopped down at the table. "I... sure." 

| | 

[Many shenanigans! Prom is coming up, so Pete asks Mikey, only Mikey says no because he doesn’t want to DIE.] 

 

Pete smashed his face into the crook of Mikey’s neck. “Mikeyway. Go to prom with me?” 

Mikey blinked. “Uh. No?” 

Pete reared back like someone had hit him. “No?” 

“Dude. No.” Mikey went back to texting on his Sidekick, while Pete blinked at the side of Mikey’s head. 

That had… actually sounded like a pretty firm no. Especially from Mikey. 

“No?” 

“No,” Mikey said again. “Opposite of yes. Answer in the negative. Not going to happen.” 

“But… why?” Pete could feel a pout coming on. 

Mikey rolled his eyes. 

| | 

[Frank and Gerard being awkward? ARE YOU SEEING A PATTERN?] 

 

Gerard wrinkled his nose. “Pete wants to take Mikey to prom.” 

“Whoa.” Frank scratched his head. “Why don’t they just, like, jump off a cliff and have done with it?” 

“I know!” Gerard screeched, flinging his hands around in a way that seemed to symbolize his violent agreement. “So Mikey said no, right? Only now Pete is being all emo about it, which in turn makes Mikey all emo, and Mikey is like _this close_ to giving into Pete’s romantic high school suicide mission, and he’s just too young to die, Frank, I dunno. I’m surprised they aren’t in enough trouble just from hanging all over each other at lunch.” 

“I think they get away with it because it’s Pete.” 

“Probably,” Gerard said gloomily. Figures. Pete Wentz can shove his hands down another guy’s pants and no one batted an eyelash, but if Gerard so much as looked at a guy sidewise he got shoved down a flight of stairs. Life just wasn’t fair. 

 

[Gerard talks about hanging out on prom night instead of going to prom! EXCEPT. GASP. FRANK IS ALREADY GOING.] 

 

“Wait.” Gerard blinked. “You’re going to prom?” 

Frank blinked back. “Yeah?” 

“With _who_?” 

“Jamia?” Frank said nervously. “She… I… I told you about this. Last week, I – ” 

“No,” Gerard interrupted. “No, no, you totally did _not_ mention that you were taking Jamia to prom.” Gerard would have remembered that, okay. Scratch that, he would have commemorated the occasion with vodka and a Wishmaster marathon. “You just… when did you… Jamia _Nestor_?” Jamia was kind of cute, really, with an extra-wide grin and pretty brown hair when she wasn’t bleaching it blonde, and… and totally a _girl_ , what the fuck, a girl that Frank was taking to _Prom_ , what the _fucking fuck_. 

“Dude. Yeah. I mean, she’s in my English class, and she asked – ” 

“And you said yes?” 

“Well, obviously!” Frank shot back. 

 

[and they fight! like little girls!] 

 

“We?” Frank asked, blankly. 

“Everyone but you, apparently,” Gerard spat out, before shoving away from the table and walking away. 

| | 

Pete flung himself onto Patrick’s bed and sighed. A deep, soul-stirring sigh of angst and sadness, and Patrick just barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. 

“Yes, Pete?” 

Pete sighed again. “Mikey won’t go to prom with me.” 

Mikey obviously had a brain larger than a pea. “Yeah, well.” 

Pete sat up and gasped, one hand over what would have been his heaving bosom – and probably was, as far as Pete’s inner drama queen was concerned. “You agree with him, Stumpalina?” 

“Stop calling me that,” Patrick said irritably. “Also, yes, duh. Most people would consider not wanting to die a healthy trait in a boyfriend.” 

Pete harumphed, but in a way that meant he was pissed his plans weren’t working out despite their insurmountable odds. It was actually a pretty common sound for Pete. 

 

[Patrick comforts. Kind of.] 

 

“I mean, I know it’s just _prom_ ,” Pete argued, but he didn’t sound too convinced himself. 

“Pete,” Patrick said slowly. “Just because _you_ thought Mikey was a girl doesn’t mean anyone else does.” 

“Well, it wasn’t like I was going to make him wear a dress, or anything.” Although, hey. There are some thoughts Pete will be exploring later. “I just want to…” Pete made a big, expansive hand gesture. “It’s what you do in high school, you know? Like, to state my intentions, and stuff. It’s what I’d do if Mikey was my girlfriend.” 

“If Mikey was your girlfriend, you’d probably have knocked her up by now.” Patrick’s forehead wrinkled. “Him. Her, him. Whatever. You know what I mean.” 

“Harsh, dude.” 

“If you tell me you’ve used a condom every single time, I will call you a dirty, dirty liar.” 

“Okay, point, but Mikey’s not a girl!” Pete frowned. “And who’s the dirty one, huh, imagining my sex life?” 

Patrick blushed and tugged on the rim of his hat. “You’re the one who calls me about it at four in the morning.” 

Pete sighed. “At least one of us is getting some.” 

“Hey! Fourteen, here! We’ve discussed this?” 

“Do you know what _I_ was doing at fourteen?” Pete leered. 

Patrick shook his head furiously. “No, and please don’t tell me. My lunch was just starting to settle.” 

| | 

[Gerard is depressed DDD: ] 

"Hey, Mikes...." Gerard mumbled, and it took a moment before Mikey settled on the blanket covered lump on the couch that was supposed to be his brother. "Did you know that you can't kill yourself by holding your breath?" 

Mikey raised an eyebrow. Gerard burrowed back under his blanket. 

"Because I _tried_ ," he went on, the picture of misery. "But breathing is like, you know, involuntary. I can only control it up to a point, and then it like, vetoes me and starts again. It just goes on and on and on and is it so wrong--" Mikey's phone buzzed and Gerard just talked over it, "to want it to end? Why can't it just end, Mikey? Why can't _I_ just end?" 

When there were no comforting pats on the shoulder or general sounds of sympathy, Gerard looked up to find Mikey already more than halfway up the stairs, fingers tap-tap-tapping out a text message. 

Gerard flopped back onto the couch. “My life,” he groans. “Oh god, my _life_.” 

| | 

[ inaprettyhowtown: and then AFTER that, we need a scene where Pete is all  
inaprettyhowtown: *shuffle shuffle*  
inaprettyhowtown: I GUESS I understand why you don't want to go to prom with me  
inaprettyhowtown: even though I totally love you and stuff  
inaprettyhowtown: and want to bone you  
inaprettyhowtown: and show you off... in a dress  
inaprettyhowtown: and thats totally romantic for Pete, you know?  
inaprettyhowtown: and Mikey well is all "...ilu 2"  
inaprettyhowtown: and then there is obnoxious-making out  
inaprettyhowtown: where ever they are ] 

 

Ray and Gerard have had anti-prom night since before they were even old enough to get into prom. It basically plays out like any other Friday night – bad horror movies, junk food. Only this time, instead of having Mikey slink around in the corner while Gerard and Ray argue about comic books, Mikey and Pete were making out in a corner, Ray and Bob were playing video games, and Gerard was wishing he would just hurry up and die already. 

The game started blaring a polyphonic victory theme, and there was a loud moan from Pete and Mikey's corner. 

"Can we go out?" Gerard asked, desperately. 

Bob and Ray exchanged Looks. 

“Sure,” Ray said hesitantly. “Where do you…?” 

“Oh!” Pete managed to remove his mouth from Mikey’s long enough to give Gerard a dazed sort of grin. “Foster’s is having a battle of the bands kind of thing going on tonight. No idea how good it’s gonna be, but my friend Andy is subbing in for one of the band’s drummers, so. I can definitely get us in.” 

Gerard stood up, resolute. “I think we should go.” 

Bob nodded. “If you want.” 

“Yeah, I. I definitely want.” To forget about Frank, mostly, but a distraction would be better than nothing. “Are you guys all coming?” 

Bob grabbed his jacket. Pete and Mikey exchanged a long look – also, something involving tongues that Gerard just _didn’t_ look at – before agreeing. Ray gave Gerard one of his You’re Being An Idiot But I Still Care About You looks before sighing and agreeing to drive them over. 

| | 

[They go to the club! And get drunk! And Bob and Brian awkwardly and awesomely straight boy flirt! man, I miss that part.] 

 

Gerard got home at half past one on the morning. Ray waited for Gerard to get halfway up the walk before he let Gerard wave him off. Only now that Gerard was finally alone, he realized that quite possibly was the last thing in the world he wanted. He saw vodka in his future. Vodka and a Romero flick. 

Those plans got shot to shit when Gerard saw Frank sitting on his doorstep. He looked sad, and even tinier than usual, all dressed up in a tux with his tie sitting loosely beside him. Gerard walked up to him, idly noting that Frank and his tie were drooping in the same way, and sat down beside Frank. Gerard was still kind of feeling a little bitchy, what with a) Frank going to prom and not telling him, and b) going to prom with a _girl_. But his bitchy mood died a short death when confronted with Frank’s miserable face. 

Gerard sighed. "Look, Frank – " 

Frank surged forward to kiss Gerard, his face wet with rain, mouth spit slick, everything more than a little clumsy, but every thought Gerard had sputtered out and died. Frank was kissing him. Frank was kissing him, and in a few seconds, Gerard was kissing back. He flailed for a minute, hands finally clenching in the front of Frank’s tuxedo, which wasn’t just damp but soaking wet, like he’d been sitting out there for hours, waiting for stupid Gerard to come home from some stupid club he hadn’t even really wanted to go to, all because he was completely _stupid_ over Frank. 

“I like you,” Frank said quietly, each word a little warm breath against Gerard’s face. “I like _you_. I went to prom because Jamia asked me, because we’re friends. And I thought you were going because you’re a _senior_ and it was _senior prom_ , only somehow I forgot you’re a completely antisocial freak of nature – ” 

This time Gerard kissed Frank. 

| | 

“I like you too,” Gerard said later, when they were both inside, lying in Gerard’s bed, with Frank’s wet tux crumpled in the corner. “I mean, obviously –” 

“You dork,” Frank said happily, and bit Gerard on the nose. “I totally knew it all along.” 

| | 

 

 

Epilogue-like bits! 

 

 

“Dude,” Gerard started, “I totally had this weird dream the other day, about where I was an alien, right? And it made total sense, ‘cause I’ve always felt like I was different from other boys…” 

“Yes, Gee,” Frank said seriously. “It’s called being _gay_.” 

Gerard ignored him. “And so my physiology was different from humans, and stuff, but I didn’t know, and I totally impregnated you with all my creepy little alien babies, and they like, hollowed out your insides to eat before hatching.” 

Frank snickered. “Aw, you gave me alien assbabies? You fucking sweet talker, you.” 

Gerard scowled. “Shut the fuck up, okay. See if you’re still laughing when _babies_ crawl out of your _ass_.” 

“I would treasure them like they were my own,” Frank said sweetly, and Gerard had to fight back a grin.


End file.
